“As if anyone is counting,” I replied, and then my throat went dry as I beheld the crowd.
Papa sat on the dais, enshrined in his vestments and scarlet cap, a fringed brocade palanquin hovering like a storm cloud above his chair. Colored cushions had been strewn on the steps before him, intended for exalted guests, though Giulia and her women usurped the privilege by arranging themselves on these pillows without so much as a reverence in His Holiness’s direction. I saw our court master of ceremonies, the German Johann Burchard, who oversaw the arrangement of official Vatican events, gaping at them, mortified by their flagrant disregard of established etiquette. Guided by Juan, I stepped past the twittering women, my train pulling at my waist as I ascended the dais to kiss my father’s hand.
“My farfallina,” he said. His breath was sour—a rarity for him—and his eyes, usually so lucid, were red-rimmed. “I never thought I’d see the day when I must relinquish my most precious jewel to another.” His voice caught in his throat. For a paralyzing moment, I thought he might start to weep. Papa had never been reticent in his emotions, but neither had he said or done anything to indicate my marriage was more than a political arrangement, which would scarcely alter the established pattern of my life. Having taken strength in his nonchalance, now I faltered, turning in bewilderment to Juan. As my brother stepped forth, eliciting Papa’s wan smile, I sensed someone else watching.
My gaze lifted, past the clerics alongside the dais, past the stone-faced guards at the wall with their halberds, and past the gossiping courtiers, drawn as if by an invisible cord to a recess under the high windows, where a lone figure stood, just as he had on the night of Papa’s banquet. Only this time, Cesare resembled a pilaster of frozen blood, dressed in the crimson of his new cardinalship.
His mouth moved. I thought he was saying my name.
Burchard clapped his hands, startling everyone to attention. I had to look away to Giovanni Sforza, who had moved to the foot of the dais.
In my sudden nervousness, I almost laughed aloud to see my bridegroom also wearing a Turkish robe, Juan’s smirk betraying he’d incited Giovanni to it, placing him further in our debt, no doubt, while mocking him in the process. Though he was the bridegroom, on Giovanni the robe looked ridiculous, while Juan carried it with style, despite its unsuitability.
I joined Giovanni. A drop of sweat slid down his temple from beneath his turban as we knelt before Papa to receive his blessing.
With the captain of the papal guard holding the sword above us in symbolic warning of what awaited those who broke their vows, Papa’s notary questioned our willingness to enter into Holy Matrimony. After we both affirmed our consent, the officiating bishop slipped twin gold bands onto the index and fourth fingers of our left hands, the veins of which ran to the heart. We then bowed our heads as the sword was removed, remaining on our knees during what promised to be a long sermon by the bishop on the virtues of our married state, until Papa cut it short with an impatient wave of his hand.
Giulia and the other women leapt to their feet to fling showers of white silk petals from the baskets by their cushions. With offended expressions, the exalted guests displaced by Giulia and her ladies queued up to offer Giovanni and me their obligatory gifts, before they tripped up the dais to kiss Papa’s satin-shod foot.
The rest of those in the hall broke into applause.
Standing beside my husband, I greeted the line of well-wishers for what felt like hours as my women gathered up their gifts (what was I supposed to do with all of it?). When a lull finally came, I immediately turned to search that darkened recess under the windows.
Cesare had vanished.
Juan returned to my side. “Time for the banquet. We are all famished.” He reached for my arm; when I resisted, he let out a chuckle. “You needn’t bother waiting. Cesare left as soon as the ceremony began. He cannot abide it. He hates everything: the wedding, the Sforza. All of it. He has lost the duchy, his freedom, and now his beloved sister.”
“He has not lost me,” I retorted. “I would never forsake him.”
“You already have,” said Juan, and he propelled me into the adjoining hall, where linen-draped tables were set before two daises slung with garlands. Silently, I assumed my seat on the main dais with Giovanni. My father and Giulia sat at the adjacent dais.
The feast commenced—an endless succession of roast fowl, Iberian smoked hams, boar, and venison, along with fresh salads and mountains of fruits, all washed down with decanters of wines borne by pages in our livery. The clamor of laughter as the guests consumed the fare made me nauseous. I could barely swallow a bite as I searched the hall, my dejection building into disbelief as I failed to see Cesare. I couldn’t believe it. How could he abandon me today of all days? Surely he must realize how much I needed him, how much I needed to know that, no matter what, nothing would change between us.
Hours later, as a comedic play took place in the center of the hall, the actors struggling to declaim their verses over the din, the most infirm or elderly of the clerics rose and hobbled out. The talk grew less guarded, the merriment bawdier. Papa, in particular, had evidently discarded his sorrow from before the ceremony to now whisper in Giulia’s ear, making her simper. At a nearby table, Juan held court with his entourage of overdressed ruffians and Djem; a garishly dressed woman was seated between them, doting on my brother’s every word.
Whenever I could, I stole covert glances at Giovanni. Unlike me, he had not lost his appetite. He had consumed three roast capons, his grease-stained napkin tucked into his loaned Gonzaga collar as he deftly peeled charred flesh from the bone. His cupbearer regularly refilled his goblet. The wine was undiluted, but Giovanni did not appear drunk, only absentminded, once returning my look with a vague smile, as though he’d forgotten why we were here.
I wondered at his nonchalance. Anxiety roiled inside me, but he seemed immune to any apprehension of what awaited us, though every minute that passed brought us closer to that dreaded hour of our nuptial bedding. He’d eaten more than his fill yet still looked eager when pages armed with little silver brushes swept the gristle from the tablecloths and a bell chime announced the dessert course; he sat up expectantly as yet another liveried troop marched in, this time bearing platters of sugared almonds, marzipan, and comfits, along with huge flagons of sweet Madeira wine. How could he act as though this feast might go on forever, with no other task before him save to sate himself, never mind that he just taken a new wife?
When I heard Giulia shriek, I turned, startled, to stare at her, as did most of those in the hall. Papa had his entire fist in her cleavage, up to his ringed knuckles. Fishing out a sweetmeat, he popped it into his mouth and smacked his lips, winking at those seated at the table below him, all of whom were cardinals.
“Nothing like a woman’s sweat to heat the tongue, eh?” he gibed. The hall erupted in mirth, with all the cardinals taking his lead and tossing sweets into nearby bodices, the women screeching and slapping halfheartedly at the cardinals’ roving hands.
Papa reclined in his chair. “Give the rest to the rabble,” he ordered Burchard, who gasped as if he had been told to serve up his own leg. Retainers flung open the hall windows, letting in a welcome gust of evening air. Gathered in the piazza, the people stampeded as the pages overturned the dessert platters onto the cobblestones, in a shower of spun sugar.
Papa caught my eye and winked. Then he called out, interrupting the actors: “Music! It is time for the bride to dance! Who here shall accompany my Lucrezia?”
The actors scrambled out of the way, leaving the detritus of their unwatched performance on the floor—a white mask, several frayed lacings, a fake gilt sword. The musicians tuned their instruments. As the twanging of strings resolved into the strains of a Spanish morisca, I turned eagerly to Giovanni. It was exactly what was required: some movement to stir the stuffiness in the air and break the torpor of overindulgence. Perhaps he might even whisper something tender to me as we danced, to ease my apprehensions.
He shook h
is head. “I cannot,” he mumbled, the stained napkin still on his neck.
“You cannot?” I was confounded. Even the lowliest nobleman knew how to dance; it was as necessary as learning how to sit a horse or use a sword.
“No, I mean, I can. But these clothes”—he waved a hand about his person—“this collar: They’re too heavy. I will not be made a fool.”
It was the second time he’d complained of his garments. I was beginning to suspect it was not their weight that troubled him but rather concern that he might do them harm. Did he have to return them all afterward? Was that how credit worked?
A voice rang out: “I shall do the honor,” and to my delight, Cesare strode into the hall with an insouciance that drew every eye to him.
As he passed the mess left by the actors, he reached down and plucked up one of the half masks, affixing it to his face. The blank white-cloth shape adhered to his brow, eyes, and nose, exalting the cut of his jaw and his sinuous lips. He had discarded his robes for hose that slithered across his thighs, his codpiece dangling silver-tipped points and the fitted velvet doublet accentuating his narrow waist. His shirt was of such a dark red silk that it appeared black, its billowing sleeves ornamented with swirls of Spanish needlework. At his chest hung his pectoral cross, his sole jewel, its gold chains coiling like serpent tails across his shoulders.
Coming before our father’s dais, he inclined his head.
Papa stared at him. “Your Eminence missed the feast.”
“Alas, I beg forgiveness, Holiness, but I was called upon at the last hour to shrive a sinner.”
Now I knew why he’d donned the mask. It was a subtle mockery, this disguising of his other, non-clerical face. I could hear it in his voice, too—as could Papa, whose countenance darkened. “A rather poor excuse. Nevertheless, I do not deem it fitting for you to dance with—”
I leapt to my feet. “Please, Holiness! Allow us to indulge you. It may be the last occasion that my brother and I have to dance together.”
“Yes,” added Cesare, with a smile, “it could be.”
“I hardly think that’s the case,” muttered Papa, but I was already leaving my dais, paying no mind to the hushed murmur rustling through the hall.
Taking Cesare’s hand, I let him bring me to the center of the room, close to the fallen sword and coiled ribbons. We positioned ourselves palm-to-palm, so close that I could feel the heat coming off him.
“I thought you had abandoned me,” I whispered.
His cat-green eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “I had to change.”
“Not out of everything.” I directed a pointed glance at his crucifix.
His smile deepened. “The fledgling cannot shed all its feathers until it leaves the nest.” He turned aside, booted foot outstretched, a hand cocked at his hip as he began the initial moves of the morisca.
The weight of my own garb disappeared as I let him weave me through the intricate pattern of steps we had performed so many times in our childhood, united by the music of our native land, which bound us together as Borgias.
When we finished, I was panting, my bodice making itself felt again, clasping like iron about my ribs. Turning to the dais with our hands still joined, I saw my father regarding us with tears. Giulia was smirking, while Juan, to my surprise, bellowed appreciation. He was the first to bring his hands crashing together, prompting the rest of the assembly to likewise burst into overwrought applause, with a few “Bravissimo!” thrown in for effect.
Then Cesare’s sweat-slicked hand slipped from mine. The abrupt unraveling of our fingers turned me back to him. He said softly, “Now do you see the power you possess, Lucia?” Stepping back, he bowed. Then he went to Juan’s table, where my brother gave him a goblet.
Cesare raised it. “A toast to the Signore and Signora of Pesaro! May they long live in happiness and bear much fruit. Buona fortuna!”
Goblets were thrust upward, sloshing wine. In a daze, I returned to Giovanni. His face was shuttered, a hand clenched about his goblet.
Papa motioned to the other guests that they could now take to the floor. Juan was the first, hauling his garish woman to her feet, tackling the dance with exuberance, if little finesse, twirling her around until she was laughing hysterically and the fake pearls from her coiffure were scattered across the floor.
Only then did Giovanni lean to me. His voice was almost timid. “You dance well, wife.”
—
THE CLOCK STRUCK midnight—the hour I had dreaded arrived. In solemn ceremony—Papa had forbidden any ribald jokes or catcalls for good hunting in the bedchamber, as was traditional at weddings—Papa and a select group of cardinals accompanied Giovanni and me back to Santa Maria in Portico.
My heart hammered in my chest. I thought I might faint as we entered the nuptial chamber, which had been prepared on the second floor of a still-vacant wing of the palazzo and was dominated by a vast upholstered bed hung in red silk, its bolster covered in silk petals. I turned anxiously to Papa. His face was impassive; he didn’t return my look as Giulia led me behind a painted screen and, together with my women, divested me of my finery. The untying of laces and removal of bodice, overskirts, and petticoats seemed to take hours. No one said a word. By the time the silk nightdress with its embroidered flower motif was slipped over my head, I was biting back tears.
Giovanni was already waiting under the sheets, his nightshirt unlaced at his throat. I couldn’t stop staring at the oddly bulbous knob of his Adam’s apple as Giulia directed me to use the footstool to clamber into that monstrously oversized bed.
A page handed Papa a single goblet of wine. He stepped forth, the cardinals hovering behind him like red moons. Holding the goblet to each of our mouths, he motioned that we should drink while the page held a cloth under our chins.
The red wine tasted sour. A drop seeped from my lips, soaking like blood into the cloth.
Papa traced the sign of the cross over us. “May no man tear asunder what God has joined,” he intoned, and then, without any warning, he stepped back and snapped his fingers.
Giulia came forward. “Lucrezia. Come with me.”
I hesitated, not because I wanted to stay but because I was confused. But when I looked at Giovanni, he was staring forward as if I were no longer there. Staggering out of the bed, I shivered—the floor was cold under my toes. Giulia folded a shawl over my shoulders and knelt, sliding slippers onto my feet. I was so taken aback by the rehearsed swiftness of it that I didn’t even think to utter good night to my husband before Giulia was steering me out the room. As I left, I cast a glance over my shoulder. Giovanni remained in bed. Papa had his back to me, but I saw tension in his stance, his shoulders squared like crenellations.
Giulia brought me down the passageway and across the courtyard to our apartments, Pantalisea and my other women padding behind with my crumpled wedding gown. All of a sudden I realized I had no idea where Adriana was. I’d lost track of her during the evening entertainment but had failed to notice her absence until now.
“Did I do something wrong?” I finally ventured as we climbed the staircase to my rooms.
“No.” Giulia halted at my bedchamber door. “Or, rather, not as far as your husband is concerned. But that dance tonight with Cesare”—her condescending chuckle scraped in my ears like fingernails—“it was charming, but hardly proper. You must exercise discretion henceforth. Albeit only in name, you are now a married woman.”
“But he is my brother.” I was too bewildered by the abrupt change of events to feel anger at her presumption, though I might have retorted that she was no one to advise me after she’d spent the evening having sweetmeats tossed into her bodice. “He asked me to dance; I saw no harm in it. Giovanni didn’t want to, so…” My explanation faltered. She was regarding me with the strangest expression. “What is it? What did I do?” I thought my dance with Cesare must have displeased Papa, who had removed me from the nuptial bedchamber as punishment. But that made no sense. He must have known I’d be relieved.
Had Giovanni complained, perhaps? I searched my memory for a recollection of him approaching Papa during the feast. No, he’d been at my side the entire time, save when I left him to dance. He even complimented me afterward.
Giulia’s voice tightened. “His Holiness expects your obedience. This…” She paused.
Despite the balmy night, I drew the shawl closer about me.
“Devotion.” She met my stare. “This devotion,” she repeated, “that you and Cesare share must not affect relations with your husband. It is vital that we not render insult to Milan.”
“Render insult?” Now my anger stirred. “Then I should have been allowed to remain with my husband. Isn’t it the custom after one is married?” As I spoke, I wondered if she had stayed with Orsino after their wedding. Or had she instead gone directly to Papa’s bed?
Her smile was cold. “What do you know of such things? You are only thirteen; there can be no consummation until you are ready. Your nuptial treaty stipulates it. Do you understand?”
“But if I’m too young to be a wife,” I said, “why marry me at all?” I knew about the need to satisfy Cardinal Sforza, which Juan had cited, but I had to wonder whether it had been truly necessary. The expensive feast and gown, the fanfare: It seemed to me quite a lot of trouble.
She made an exasperated sound. “Clearly you do not understand. You have not bled yet. Therefore, you are not a woman. The marriage must remain unconsummated until His Holiness says otherwise.”
Humiliation rushed over me. It was true that I’d not yet shed my first blood, but the way she spoke it was like another barbed reminder of her superiority over me. She sounded as if she relished having yanked me from my nuptial bed and pointing out that it was I, not my husband, who was not ready to assume the responsibilities of marriage. I loathed her for it, even if I well knew that marriage was a convenience, an arrangement between families. If love should come of it, it was a gift, not an expectation. Indeed, Papa must have loved my mother once, as he apparently now loved Giulia, but he’d been content to see Vannozza wed to others. Of course, he couldn’t marry, because of his vows; nevertheless, marriage had never seemed to me to hinge on desire but rather on necessity—a state that women must accommodate. Giulia alone had shown me how little marriage meant.
The Vatican Princess Page 10